“We did not find the body until the rains washed away part of the cemetery this year,” said Le Xuan Minh. “It was in a family plot.” He exchanged another deliberate glance with his elders, gaining nods of affirmation from them. Then all of them looked over at the younger man sitting separately from them. Finally Le Xuan Minh stubbed out his cigarette.

“This is Nguyen Hao,” he said. “He buried your soldier among his ancestors when he was a little boy.”

Hao remained silent, looking nervously at the others with what seemed to be great embarrassment. Finally he spoke. “I was twelve years old. We found him dead outside our house. My grandmother told me to bury him.”

“Why didn’t you report it?” Quyen asked the question with harsh tones, but Condley knew that the political officer had already rehearsed both the question and the answer with the beleaguered Hao. This was a Vietnamese version of Kabuki, an act designed to allow the government and the villagers and perhaps even the Americans to save face.

“Who would I talk to?” Hao grew defensive. “I was a boy. Soldiers from all sides constantly moved through our village. The Americans never came to ask about him. I could not go to the Americans. Both sides might shoot me. I was afraid.”

“But what about later?” Quyen pressed him. “All the villages know that we have had an agreement with the Americans for many years. You are shaming our country when you hold back information. Your entire village loses face.”

Hao looked at them all, this time with genuine fear. “I was afraid for my family, that the government would think we took sides in the war. And Mr. Quyen, sir, I say with great respect once again that no one ever asked about the dead American during the war. There was no fight in our village on the night he died. There was no crashing of a helicopter, no land mine explosion, no ambush. Soldiers moved through our village, both sides. Artillery always fell at night while we slept inside our family bunkers. We woke up and the American was lying dead on the trail outside our door. And my grandmother, sir, was the senior voice in our house. She told me to bury the soldier and to be quiet. We did not want any trouble, even then. She was the voice of the family and I must respect her.”

A silence fell over the gathered men. The young woman reappeared with a second pot of tea, then slipped back into the darkness. Outside, the rain was falling harder. It was making little pops against the tin roof above them and they could hear it in the trees. The dogs were still yapping and the children were playing happily in the rain. Condley sipped fresh tea. He lit another cigarette. And finally enough time had passed that he could utter the ritual words of forgiveness.